Total empathy feeds bread to the sun. The sun atopic with spikes for hands, is reverse-engineered into Chinese factory rooftop / Nebraskan robofarm / deforested flat pixellate, recognising it in these disguises is a step in the right direction. Each dog takes the twist. Speak in the fourth person. Now if we can get down to brass tacks the point was to boldly go into the deepest recesses of the darkest caves of god help them with or without a softly speaking big stick to bludgeon at least a couple barrels of crude out of the tar sands in your busted thighs. So cut me some slack — you know it ain’t easy — It finds-me-with its plates of illness — china and petri, ‘shard and glisten’ — I think Batman would read Baudrillard and then he’d come out with a very heavy response. What they are trying to tell you is you are wearing the wrong bra for your shape and situation. Reading is basically impossible because of the song in your head. Something in me sees a nail and thinks oh no this is poison. True or false: The world will or will not end. I shall speak about men’s writing: about what it will do. Man must write his self: must write about men and bring men to writing, from which they have been driven away as violently as from their bodies — for the same reasons, by the same law, with the same fatal goal. Man must put himself into the text — as into the world and into history — by his own movement. The future must no longer be determined by the past. I do not deny that the effects of the past are still with us. But I refuse to strengthen them by repeating them, to confer upon them an irrevocability the equivalent of destiny, to confuse the biological and the cultural. Anticipation is imperative. That’s from “The Laugh of the Minotaur”. But these stories of Jewish souls in gentile bodies are only a small minority of the holocaust quilt. Buck-Morss herself is syncretizing here, if we can equate terms to emblems — “extraordinary rendition” (our complicity with US torture at “black sites”); “rhizomatically” (Deleuze & Guattari) mapped onto the Middle Passage and the growth & relational structure of Haitian Vodou. The “community of trust” she speaks of … well I wonder whether that has been true beyond Revolutionary times, or beyond the communities of trust that constitute individual hounfor. Everybody (in Haiti) knows the story of Boukman, Bois Cayman, the black pig that was sacrificed, the petwo loa whose fire and vengeful power were called upon to help fight slavery. The revolutionaries of Saint-Domingue required more than earthly power to beat the world’s most formidable colonial powers — they required divine participation, they invoked it, they demanded it, and they got it. Then what happened? I was invited to Richard Tuttle’s house, and I thought I’d go there and see a piece of paper on the floor, and they’d be like “Don’t touch that, that’s called The Volition of Myth” or something. All small and local fires are part of the general conflagration: that’s the nature of fire, which only had to be brought to earth once, against the wishes of the gods, and immediately it was everywhere, like Coca Cola. OK. Hell weekend was pretty hellish but at the end of that wedding almost everyone was gone except for the best people and we all sat around speculating on who was fucking in the out-of-order stall in the women’s bathroom and it turned out to be the two people who had everyone’s car keys, so, that was kind of hilarious I guess. OK. I think about this one-man play I saw on the lower east side some time in the late 90s. It was spoken by a guy who had been mistaken for Hitler by an underground Hitler-cult. I watched it in one of those basements beneath a storefront on the Lower Eastside. As he told the increasingly absurd and therefore true story of his abduction and consequent physical ordeals and pleasures, the ugly, middle-age man grew sweatier and sweatier. I thought he was going to have a stroke. A pig stroke. But he survived grotesquely and spectacularly. The walls were covered with newspapers and the air was stale. We didn’t survive. The cult didn’t survive. That man with his pig stroke had infected the entire velvet underground. Add the web-like structure that forms the (baryonic) backbone of the universe to your leopard’s equivalent, please. “We’re dealing with a living thing”, someone told someone, “visceral mind, expanding and contracting, an orifice bleeding.” “Shows what I know about lemurs, Ed.” Thank you so much, Santa Barbara Optometry. Extreme porn stream video sex headlight bulb sizes for 2002 chevy silverado 1500 indian mms with couples image dragon ball hentai alyssa milano bikini free horse porn video jewelers in fort myers windmill made in china russian matures pantyhouse trailer words to blue is the colour black simple things to do to try indian aunty stories.

30.07.2012

The abject is not an ob-ject facing me, which I name or imagine. Nor is it an ob-jest, an otherness ceaselessly fleeing in a systematic quest of desire. What is abject is not my correlative, which, providing me with someone or something else as support, would allow me to be more or less detached and autonomous. The abject has only one quality of the object—that of being opposed to I. If the object, however, through its opposition, settles me within the fragile texture of a desire for meaning, which, as a matter of fact, makes me ceaselessly and infinitely homologous to it, what is abject, on the contrary, the jettisoned object, is radically excluded and draws me toward the place where meaning collapses. What am I, what are the limits of me, how do I know other people, how do I know culture, how do I know history, how else could I conceivably know people and culture and history: do you think, honestly, that these questions are luxuries? Who knew? The trapezius muscles are actually shaped like trapezoids. Why write, if not in the name of an impossible speech? What lies beneath my copy of eternity, where significance “bleeds into an unconstrainable chain”? Just when you were ready to shuffle the thinly-sliced carrots into the broth, you realized your omission, and granting a leave of stay to the taproot, you make your way mindlessly to the basement for potatoes. The beaded cord should be right about … here, but tugging on it past the catch does nothing, and the textured silence that lingers is broken once more by a click from behind and above you. It takes some time for the realization to dawn, but when it does, you rapidly churn through the varying dimensions of grief before acquiescing in the face of the mighty will of sound architecture. QUESTION: I’m enormously fanful of what you’re doing here. Just curious: why not ‘pataphysical with [‘]? Answer: Thank you, and I don’t know. “It is dark & I go / It is dark & I don’t go / I go & I don’t go.”

29.07.2012

Cleaning out my messenger bag, I found this from a Man Ray film: “Prestigious, as if bearing the seal of a strange destiny, a castle ...” Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: “How pleasant to spend one’s vacation en la casa de Popeye,” she scratched her cleft chin’s solitary hair. She remembered spinach and was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach. “M’love,” he intercepted, “the plains are decked out in thunder today, and it shall be as you wish.” He scratched the part of his head under his hat. The apartment seemed to grow smaller. Happy birthday, Mr A. Mr D slides a piece across an invisible chessboard. OK. OK. Many orange salamanders on our hike this morning after the rains. Rising smoke stacks! Dancing men with hats! Bearers of sod! Rings of steel! Hillocks! A big tree! Kenneth Branagh! (I thought Baudrillard wrote about the USA!) — but since when have They been right about basically anything (the answer is no, that has not ever happened), everything is pretty analogous these days, and falls in on itself so surround yourself with nice things and you will have nice fat waves to ride toward the sunset on a twilit jet propelled by your own farts according to National Geographic. I need to go to sleep, but also this other thing happens: “the boundless eroticization of the proletariat,” I mean of course the negation of the negation of negation, that is, as in great shipwrecks, we indicate our exact location, at latitude blah blah North and longitude blah blah East. We might say that in these instances the beloved is in the process of — in Deleuzian-Guattarian terms — “becoming-animal” and “becoming-child” (as an unborn fetus with a “tentacular head”). AND THEN IT WAS LESS BLEAK BECAUSE WE SAID SO. Does this mean you’re doomed to have a McBaby? No, not necessarily: with the right food choices the genetic changes may be beneficial as well. At this rate, I expect to see Jimmy Carter down here in November to observe elections. “Then I look at the yellow of the mattress, and it turns brown.” The very etiology of rabies is mythic: once the bite heals and the virus has traveled to the brain, “the wound will usually return, as if by magic, with some odd sensation occurring at the site.” Then there’s the fact that no definitive diagnosis can be made without taking a biopsy of the sick brain. OK. OK. In the beginning, there were itching and prickling sensations on arms and head. Subsequently, she felt small worms, with different shapes and colors, crawling through her skin or swirling around her body. After two years, she began to see small pumpkins and flowers coming out of her body and lettuce crawling on the table. She complained of water trickling out of walls and forming puddles on the ground. Occasionally, she saw small children walking on the walls and also worms on the floor and walls. Sometimes, the parasites set fire to small objects. But fuck Jasper Johns / from now on I’m eating with Guernica. I went to see Anne Carson read from Nox at Poet’s House a couple years ago. Stephen Motika ran the pages up the aisle. She had green toenails and seemed nervous. God, I love her. Claymation uses Plasticine, which is made with petroleum jelly and doesn’t dry out, but the sense that an animated character is “formed … of the dust of the ground” (Genesis 2:7, KJV) nevertheless remains. Whether or not we acknowledge it, our ultimate fate as inert matter — “for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return” (Genesis 3:19, KJV) — makes Claymation figures our kindred beings. According to Sarane Alexandrian, “the hall of the Père Lachaise crematorium, where Luca was incinerated, was packed” and “more people attended the funeral of Gherasim Luca than that of Baudelaire,” a poet who wrote, in the “La Morte” section of Les Fleurs du Mal, “‘I shall lie down, / I shall sleep. / Shroud me in your panoply, / O replenishing darkness!’”

28.07.2012

It was fun talking. There's something about the way you speak that makes the word “like” (as in “I was all like”) sound elegant. Yes, it was fun talking! This sounds weird, but I barely and rarely talk on the phone anymore. You use the word “okay” like you’re punctuating. And your relaxed California sound makes a cradle for jarring names like Ezra Pound. I’m around academics all the time, and I hate that rhetoric. So I love to use the word “fuck” when I can. Like a butterknife! “What's a ‘scad’?” “It's another word for an oodle.” I have a different question: is to make “sheep's eyes” the same as “puppy face”? “Still / one should be patient / with the present (“your life’s fish tank a Mobius strip vista of degraded landscapes projected on ever-larger TV screens”) / as if with a child. / / To follow its prattle – / glitter on water – / indulgently / is only polite.” At first there was so much light in the room with me that I thought it must be the dog. But no. Okay, but I will explain that the grass was green. They gave me the kind of Jello where The Grand Hotel Night Air Balloon boasts a lobby filled with caged tropical birds, a musical fountain, and rooms without walls, all enveloped in a “blue haze”. The booklet looks superb and they’ve done a great job. My short essay “Is there such a thing as a Mundane Object? “Art at Large” and the counter-factual objet Trouvé” is in there. We’re sons and daughters of a loop da loop era in a different sense now ... time circles, ex nunc retrochronia, pas encore déjà voodoo, always-alreadiness. The edge will not let you be uncomplicated. Which is exciting considering the edge doesn’t even exist. For example, in Chapter One of Family Romance, a giant moth has fastened onto the narrator’s head. In context, it seems natural and inevitable that such a drastic pathogen would cause his face to explode in a catastrophic sneeze: scarlet gore, brain matter and eye jelly everywhere. And, of course, anyone familiar with the pneumatics of a physical body will tell you that such a traumatic shock will cause the muscles, connective tissues and blood vessels of his neck and shoulders to throb, swell, writhe – all drawn here to exacting clinical perfection. It’s a strange picture, for sure – and yet, the strangest part is not the physiology, but the fashion. Look at the garment he’s wearing. Where the fuck did that come from? “Who killed Ian Tomlinson?” yells a kid. “The police killed Ian Tomlinson!” his friends call back. Outside the yard a line of officers in acrid yellow stands impassive. “Who killed Jean Charles De Menezes?” – “The police killed Jean Charles De Menezes!” One police officer studies her boots as if they might be about to kick off. “Who killed Mark Duggan?” – “The police killed Mark Duggan!” You are also real. This is an important psychological point. You mingle with the people, using the natural contagions. Crude mathematics go a long fucking way. But more force is needed. Before reaching the intersection, the line is converted to a wedge. The geometry of our childhood is falling beautifully to ruin. So our use of it begins. Note the sky. Plato taught us everything. We expect collared spines of pure white criminality if a single finger’s lifted, which explains why you drove why you drove why you drove yourself around the City limits. You, and yourself, to whom the Rimbaud Unkant is your nemesis, you reapply the lime scale to the integrity of our deaths in the polar kettle, e.g.: “This is not the image we want to portray! We are safe in all sorts of indicators, but this is a terrible advert for the capital, particularly, as you say, in the run up to the Games!” Motherfucker, this is the Games. OK. But, Rich, you are deeply mistaken about Wittgenstein.

[Note: Sources: JBR, email to Anne Gorrick, 27 Jul 012 approx 12:20 PM PDT; Anne Gorrick, email to JBR, 27 Jul 012, approx. 12:46 PM PDT; “Ten Years of Languagehat: V”, at Languagehat, 26 Jul 012; Tat, comment appended to “Language Help Needed”, at Languagehat, 24 Aug 06; Rae Armanrout, The Pretext, Michael Brownstein, World on Fire, Clark Coolidge, “Alien Tatters”, in Alien Tatters, Robert Coover, The Grand Hotels (of Joseph Cornell), as quoted in Brian Kim Stefans, LITTLE REVIEWS of a few books of poetry published 1998-2002, at arras.net; Robert Jackson, “Field Static Booklet”, at Algorithm and Contingency, 27 Jul 012; Simon Reynolds, “RetroRave”, at BLISSBLOG, 27 Jan 012; JBR (ex nunc = from now on); Tracy Lynn Matlock, “Bold Lines To Scribble Out Of”, at The Noumenon Revelation, 27 Jul 012; Tom Bradley, as interviewed by Cye Johan, in “FAMILY ROMANCE: word and image converge seamlessly like a love sarong with no zipper”, at HTMLGIANT, 27 Jul 012; Laurie Penny, “London, Underground”, at The New Inquiry, 27 Jul 012; Colleen Hind and Pocahontis Mildew, We Are Real: A History, as quoted in Richard Owens, “SOME THOUGHTS ON MOTHERFUCKER THIS IS THE GAMES”, at Damn the Caesars, 26 Jul 012; JBR (re something Rich wrote in the previous: “If, as Wittgenstein claimed in a depressingly influential philosophical instant of gratuitously imbecilic self-indulgence, language functions like a game, then running for one's life from the police is likewise a game, just as whimpering for mercy at gunpoint is a game, just as pissing on freshly murdered Afghan corpses is a game, just as the slaughter of children in Houla is a game.” Not only did Rich forget that W was speaking in similes (see the word like), there’s nothing at all in W’s life to indicate that he thought it was a game)]

27.07.2012

We could deflate the pomposity of the city square or the elegance of a park with our giant pink phalluses and lime-green sausages. Sitting on dignified plinths, our skewed and lumpy sculptures, often garishly painted, have a kind of idiot elegance. But that’s old news. I think Cat Marnell is Lars Iyer, and vice versa. And in a way they’re both Tao Lin. In the same way, Homer’s Iliad is based on real people and events, appearing at first like an abstract mess of color, and then you realize that the reclining wolf is getting off on some trippy stuff. Speaking of the Chili Peppers, I saw them once, in a little club in LA in the early 80s. They weren’t all that bad. But what made the night memorable for me was the passed-out guy at the next table and the two young women who obviously didn’t know him writing away in marker on the back of his leather jacket. RESET RESET RESET RESET RESET. And although I do not believe in happiness, self-care, or therapy, I am undertaking a project of all three. Events have made a series of holes in my mind through which I am frequently falling. Sometimes when I fall into one I disappear for days and weeks and simply do not exist or exist in a separate mode entirely. But as near seizure as I was, I was not prepared for part 10: “There is a young Galactic Empire emperor who roams the hyperspace corridors, and will not withdraw until you beat the side of your ship, and hand over a ladle.” Following the link trail led me first to a video of some Japanese kids and a green worm dancing, and then to a pretty ridiculous video of a very drunk man falling down at a wedding (I wish I had saved that link), and eventually to the English lyrics of the song “Father Abraham.” The Japanese version is slightly different, with one son being very tall and another being fat, instead of none of them laughing or crying. Could light teach us the whole dance without the counter-dance of darkness? “The dark,” wrote Lorca, “wants to become light,” but the Gabon pygmies told us, “The light becomes darkness / the night & again the night / the day with hunger tomorrow.” We are not only the victims of the forces that will destroy us, we are their children. Thank you, Mel Nichols, for providing us with two videos and for using a ukulele in one of them. I’m also very grateful to Ben for explaining the ‘lo mismo / lo mismo’ epigram – a compacted lettrist sonnet made of Francesco de Goya’s despair of finding anything other than the Spanish words for “the same” to title his endless pictures of the horror of war” which has (at last) unlocked for me the recurring use of ‘same’ in ‘Streak ~~~ Willing ~~~ Entourage ~~~ Artesian’. That is, an amateur gunsmith known only as “HaveBlue” has earned the dubious distinction of ushering in the age of print-on-demand weapons. With only $30 in plastic and a commercially available 3-D printer HaveBlue succeeded in creating a fully functional assault rifle. RESET RESET RESET RESET NO RESET. A ladle? Open dictionary. Double check. Yes, a ladle. Close dictionary, open Google. The problem was what to type into Google. Ladle, sure. But what was the Galactic Empire a stand-in for this time? And did the hyperspace corridors have anything to do with the ladle, or was that part all EnJoe and not reference? Throw different parts of the Japanese sentence into the search bar and click links in links in links. Learn a variety of interesting things that are completely unrelated to the Galactic Empire. Which is how, in the end, I learned of an obscure Japanese folk tale: Keep a bottomless ladle on hand and be ready to beat the side of your ship loudly just in case you run into the Mary Celeste.

26.07.2012

An amateur gunsmith known only as “HaveBlue” has earned the dubious distinction of ushering in the age of print-on-demand weapons. With only $30 in plastic and a commercially available 3-D printer HaveBlue succeeded in creating a fully functional assault rifle.

While there are still some details to sort out, it’s pretty clear that making weapons at home using 3-D printers from commonly available materials is going to become much more commonplace in the near future. In fact, as 3-D printing technology matures, materials feedstock improves, and designs for weapons proliferate, we might soon see the day when nearly everyone will be able to print the weapons of their choice in the numbers they desire, all within the privacy of their own homes.

As I get older, genitals grow less interesting. Every time you blink you carbon trade, so don’t blink. Is this my work? It is a good ear and has been licked. Note to self: footnote Bo Derek, 7-11 and Yngwie Malmstein. And steal Justin’s description of divine afflatus: “the kind of blowjob only a Genius could deliver.” And connect it to Reitha Pattison’s “oxygen / at 30% as the dragon rises in a- / chromatic scales / their own hue lost / along with other wet / dreams of chivalry.” So there you have it. Of the top 35 news stories only two of them relate to the fact that the continent is bankrupt, and they don’t even get a mention until number 30. What are you looking at, dog. Did you know fruit flies can have sex for twenty minutes? That’s like half their lifespan. There’s a couple going at it on the parquet floor. The future of the species depends on it. Unless they’re just writhing in death throes — how does my x-ray vision know when to stop? Can you just give yourself a nickname like “Third Eagle of the Apocalypse” or do you have to wait for someone else to give it to you? I can picture Third Eagle and Steve Roggenbuck battling each other with light sabers and random names and verse numbers like: “Juan, chapter 38 verse 7 says you shall fetch me a pastrami sandwich.” “Well, Buddy, 21:4 says you should kick down 3 bucks so I can eat a Taco Supreme® made with premium seasoned beef, crisp lettuce, diced juicy red ripe tomatoes, real cheddar cheese and topped with cool reduced-fat sour cream, in a shell made from Nacho Cheese Doritos® Chips.” I remember that I loved you at the Comic-Con, but I don’t remember which one.

‘I speak calmly; I live calmly, I sell telephones in March, in April and September.’ - Gruneberg and Jacobs,Spanish Through Word Association

I speak frenzy; I live frenzy, I ride a cellphone surfhoverboard through the sky like the silver surfer, the mercury surfer! and that cellphone’s ringtone is 47 miles of barbed wire, cobra-snake for a necktie, brand new house on the roadside, made from rattlesnake hide, brand new chimney made on top, made out of human skull. Now come on take a walk with me, note to self: cut in lines from “Ode to TL61P 3” beginning “Horror of senior liquidity managers” to middle of next page, “I saw the devil’s finger in Monterrey.” Light coming into fog against invisible / / top of ridge, bird chirping from branch / / in foreground, sound of wave in channel. “Then / All of a sudden // I saw jerky // A curtain / Of jerky spread / Over the world.” (“I CAN’T WAIT FOR A THICKER COCK”) “Abundance / And parsimony / Are the wicked parsley / In my frizzy hair.” I am a love theorist. I am an event that lives in the world. I am a love theorist, how did that happen? I was doing ideology critique and fell down the rabbit hole, the donut hole, the pipette. Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. This is why, perhaps, Laplanche uses the word “metabolize.” Remember way back when? When “Actual meat turns green”? A slag of glitter outside the glassworks. A monument to formal annihilation. Man on trial for staring at TV. Sean, Rupture – as formal activity. What do we translate it into? I have melted and re-formed quotations from the following into its forming action: Adorno, Auden, Badiou, Bad Prophets Err, Bonney, David Cameron, Clark Coolidge, Simon Critchley, Duckweed, flarf, W.S. Graham, Guattari, Simon Jarvis, Primo Levi, Kruk, Marcuse, Meschonnic, Milton, Pasternak, Penny Lane Graffitist, John Rajchman, Rancière, David Toop, and Two geopolitically-challenged ‘scallies’ from Wavertree, Liverpool. Is there or is there not a problem with the Greenland Ice Sheet? Then someone said “Corso? / Why do I know the name Corso?” / O my elegiac feelings American! / I pumped him full of lost watches, / Screaming “Warthog! Marriage! / You must learn to love the Bomb!” / / Then Dan and I went down to Chinatown / And drank a couple Tsing Tao beers.